In Limbo
by LittleGreenBudgie
Summary: AU "For what it's worth, I joined for the fame and fortune, and I didn't find them," Farina sighs, dropping her cigarette butt in the ocean. "I joined for the honor," Heath says, wordlessly holding out his lighter. "…I didn't find it, either."


They meet once, a beginning, working the same temp job.

She sits atop a cargo crate with her legs dangling off the sides, wearing a ball cap to keep the sun out of her eyes. He rests against a crate next to hers, wearing a heavy field jacket that strikes her as impossibly stupid in the blazing summer sun. His hands are jammed in his pockets, his head is tipped up to the sky, and his legs are kicked out in front of him. They've long since scarfed down their lunches, but break isn't over, and with the sun beating down, she isn't going to complain. The fresh sea air slaps both of their faces, but she takes it as a welcome reprieve from sweat and car exhaust.

"Hey, you," she calls down to him, grinning a sloppy grin.

He starts like he's been touched by a live wire, head snapping up and eyes fixed with hawkish intensity on her. His messy hair falls in his face and he draws his legs up to his chest, ready to spring to his feet in an instant, but she only chuckles and shakes her head.

"What do you want?" he asks, not a rough demand but a real honest question.

"Couple thousand gold, a house in the best part of the city, and a lifetime of all-you-can-eat adventure. Thanks for asking," she replies cheekily, laughing at her own joke and dropping down to his level.

He nods, and though he doesn't laugh, he still gives her his name.

They lift cargo and carry lumber side by side, a too-thin woman with bright eyes and a lanky man with unkempt hair.

They meet twice, drinking at the same bar after work.

She's sitting at the counter, tough and tomboyish and fine with any company that doesn't try using bad come-ons. He's sitting alone at a table in the corner, shoulders hunched and moping into his drink. He stares, but doesn't protest when she saunters over and swings into the seat across from him, sitting backwards in her chair. They drink the same piss-poor beer and she laughs, raucous and making him jump as if a gun had gone off.

She skips introductions and wishy-washy small talk and cuts straight to the first thing on her mind.

"You've got a tattoo," she says, gesturing towards the wyvern inked onto his bicep. "That's a military thing, right?"

"Yeah," he says, cautious and narrow-eyed. "What's it matter to you?"

His tone is sharp and scared, but he squares his shoulders and sits up straighter. She suddenly realizes that she doesn't know why he's out of the force and working the docks, and even if she can fight, he's nearly twice her size, tradesman's arms and eyes like ice. She grins all the more, teeth bared in a wildcat-smile, and rolls up her sleeve—she has a tattoo of her own, a pegasus over a lightning bolt, and his eyes widen.

"Me too," and it's a little thing they can hold between them, a layer of protection quartering them off from the outside world.

His eyes shine like personal justice and they talk the night away.

They meet thrice, smoking at the end of the pier long after the day's work is done.

The setting sun paints phoenix fire over sea and sky, and she's bundled up in her leather jacket with the collar popped against the cool air. He stands dangerously close to the edge, leaning back against cargo with a cigarette between his fingers, the perfect picture of a rebel. He stares out over sea and he's a million miles away, expression softened by memories that she's fine with not knowing about.

"You from around here?" she asks between drags.

"Something like that," he agrees.

"Didn't have the sense to leave when you quit the force?"

"This is my home. If you don't like it, you can head back to Ilia," he replies, not defensive but flat and serious.

He looks at her sidelong and shrugs as if he isn't really all that angry. He looks more sad than in a fighting mood, and she almost wants to make a crack just to see what he's made of. She thinks about her old days in the military, though, sees the same dark melancholia etched into his face, and her joke dies on her lips.

"For what it's worth, I joined for the fame and fortune, and I didn't find them," she sighs, dropping her cigarette butt in the ocean.

"I joined for the honor," he says, wordlessly holding out his lighter as she digs out another cig. "…I didn't find it, either."

She doesn't speak for a long while, both watching the sun dip below the horizon.

"If you've got a problem with the way things are, stop bitching and do something about it," she says. "They can take your stripes, but you can set the whole damn place on fire."

He looks over, eyebrows raised to his hairline and eyes wide. She stares back, energy and conviction, and he's the first to crack a smile, close-lipped and warm.

"I just might."

They meet four times, catching a bite to eat at the local diner.

She's sitting at the counter and forking pancakes into her mouth as quickly as she can swallow them, knowing better than anyone how precious a commodity food is. He pushes his potatoes around his plate, still wearing that same stupid military jacket he had on when she first saw him. She wonders how someone as lean and ragged as him can find the capacity to be picky, but then he likely didn't have two siblings that would gobble up whatever meager leftovers they had.

"Where were you before this job?" he asks suddenly, pushing his long hair out of his eyes with the back of one hand.

"Still in town," she replies with a vague gesture, speaking with her mouth full. "Did a bit of short-haul pickup and delivery. I'm no dedicated stevedore or anything. How 'bout you?"

"A few…wet jobs," he mutters.

She furrows her brow and frowns, unused to the Bernese slang. He catches her look and drops it for the first time since she's seen him, and that's enough to pique her curiosity even more.

"Is that the sorta thing you can get locked up for?" she asks in an undertone.

"Maybe," he murmurs, shoulders hunched, a barrier between her questions and his principles.

"Maybe I've been there, too," she says, another notch on the wall.

His look is sad and sorry, and he leaves a few coins for the meal and gets up to go. She joins him as soon as she's finished his food for him, and he's standing outside in the chill, his cigarette already lit.

"Is it any different from killing someone on the battlefield?" she presses.

"I drew the line at the type of killing Bern was doing," he tells her, looking out over the mess of his city. Sirens wail somewhere in the night, and the buildings are brick and soot and spray paint. "Need I ask what you've done?"

She shakes her head, face grim and miserable.

"We're in the same boat there, buddy."

They meet five times when they pick up their final paychecks together, walking out of the shipyard with a little bag of gold and silver coins. She's touched every one of them a dozen times over, and he's calm and resigned to the search for another job. She doesn't know what she'll do next, but with a dozen cities in driving distance and a pile of trade skills, she doesn't worry.

They drive outside the city together and park by the airfield. He grins on the back of his deathtrap of a motorcycle, goggles over his eyes and hair flying behind him, but all too soon he's put down the kickstand and is back to solemn severity. He sits next to her in the back of her rusty pickup truck and they watch the planes go by, sharing a six-pack of cheap beer.

"I used to fly," he says, watching the great bulk of a jumbo jet lumbering through the air. "A Hyperion M-22. It's a sort of fighter jet."

He holds his hands out like he's gripping a control yoke, and he smiles sadly at her. Memories of her sister's helicopter flights flash in her mind, but she's never been further off the ground than on the balcony of a high rise. The look of profound pain on his face is enough to make her frown, though. She takes his cigarette and draws in a deep lungful of smoke, drawing her legs up to her chest and folding her arms atop them.

"I saw more combat than I wanted to," she says, "and the desk job killed me. Fame and fortune and adventure, you know?"

"Not really," he replies, but he nods anyway and pops the cap off another bottle.

"Modern fighting isn't adventure," she continues, shivering. "Fighting is your friends getting shot to pieces and you're hiding in a ditch to keep yourself from joining 'em. I'll take boats and temp work over that any day, you know?"

A plane flies low overhead, ruffling their hair and drowning out his answer with a roar of engines. They're each on their third beer, not much for a tall guy like him but enough to muzzy her judgment, and she leans against him, head pillowed on his shoulder.

He tenses up, but she laughs, low and heady, and shushes him. They drink and smoke and watch the flashing lights of the landing strips and control towers, not speaking another word.

Their next meeting is delayed by six months and nearly as many jobs, but when she sees his worn old military jacket and his mullety mop of hair, she grins and strikes up conversation as if no time has passed at all.


End file.
